Alright
by pringles-prongs
Summary: Post-Anne. 'Henry had banished Anne Boleyn from his thoughts for almost a year, but today even looking out the window reminded him of her.' A oneshot told in different POVs, telling the story of after Anne Boleyn.


**A/N: Just something I wrote a while ago.**

* * *

When the tower doors behind her, Anne Boleyn swore it would not rain until she was released.

Her prediction came true; for the seventeen days she was locked in her cell not a drop of rain graced England's land. When the five accused men were executed (just two days before her own death came upon her) the only water in London was the salty tears rolling down her face.

In fact, even when she was released from the tower and led onto the scaffold, England stayed dry. Just eleven minutes after her death the heavens opened and it _rained_.

By the time the storm had slowed to a drizzle, various parts of Anne's anatomy were being distributed around London and her name banned from public areas. The King was already engaged to Jane Seymour and within a week, she was all but forgotten.

* * *

Henry had banished Anne Boleyn from his thoughts for almost a year, but today even looking out the window reminded him of her - staring at the lawn, he thought of her and Elizabeth playing, his eyes glazing as he reflected the way her skirt spun out, and the sun hitting her hair -

He physically shook his head to rid himself of the memories. He had Jane now, sweet Jane, and a son on the way.

For it _would_ be a son this time, he knew it. A prince. Prince Henry? Edward? He seemed to be leaning towards the latter - the name Henry had a bad history. Henry Fitzroy, the New Year's Boy, to name a few. And the would-be-Henry's Anne had lost. He tensed as he remembered Linacre telling him of the deformed son; the very thing that had orchestrated Anne's downfall. No son of his could be - or _would_ be - deformed, and he had been right: Cromwell had found no less than five lovers, and Henry suspected a hundred more. Wyatt, perhaps, Percy, for another. And her own _brother_! Henry shuddered. It was truly repulsive; good riddance to Anne Boleyn. Good bye and good riddance.

* * *

Cromwell was missing Anne Boleyn more than he should, considering he was the one who had made up charges and forced her ladies to give him fictitious evidence. He often wondered if the King really _believed_ those charges, or if he knew, deep down, that he was murdering an innocent woman.

It was a great source of comfort to Cromwell that it was _the King_ who signed the death warrant; if it came down to it, _the King_ who killed her. Not him.

"Fetch me a glass of wine. Mulled."

(It was close to Yuletide and Cromwell was _ever_ so festive.)

"Yes, sir."

The boy returned with the glass and set it on the table, careful to make no noise. "There you are, sir."

"Thank you. Thank you, Joseph."

The boy started at being addressed by his name (as Rich was always saying, he treated his servants _far_ too well - they would follow him to Land's End if they could. Rich did not seem to understand that a loyal servant was everything to a man who feared his position; and Cromwell was indeed that man).

Cromwell took a sip of the drink and suddenly sat up - some of the wine spilled onto his tunic.

"Does it taste sour, sir? I can take it back if you will - here, let me clean it up for you -"

"No -no, get off," Cromwell brushed the boy's hand away - this was, of course, why he wore black. "Get me a quill and ink, please, immediately!"

Perhaps he couldn't apologise to Anne, but he could certainly show his remorse to someone else.

* * *

Thomas Boleyn - for he was simply _Thomas_ these days, having been stripped of his titles (a fate he thought he quite deserved) - was despondent. He was bitter, too, and angry: he had lost his heir and his favourite daughter as _well_ as an earldom. Perhaps some of the angriness stemmed from him being more upset over the loss of his appellation than his children. He supposed his children had been more like chess pieces than actual zoetic _beings_ \- as Elizabeth had reminded him, and then died weeks later, of heartbreak most likely. Mary had refused to return to Hever with him, instead opting to remain with her low-born husband and bastard children, so he was not only despondent but alone.

Naturally, after weeks of isolation, it came as a surprise when the letter arrived.

It was from Cromwell (Thomas could tell not only by the stamp _on_ the letter but by the messenger himself - a tall, head-held-high sort of man with a crest on his uniform). Thomas shooed the messenger away and held it over a candle; he was almost tempted to let it burn.

 _Dear Master Thomas Boleyn,_ the first line of the letter mocked. No _sir_. No _lord._ Just 'master'.

 _It has been an age since we last met_ \- Thomas snorted aloud - _and I wish to meet you again soon. Perhaps you do not want to, and I will respect your wishes, but I_ do _need to apologize for something (and what, I'm sure you can guess). Perhaps if not, we may correspond by letter. I know I have done wrong and I would give the world to put it right again._

 _-Thomas_.

It was funny, Thomas thought, but he was under the impression that were Thomas was today, he did indeed _have_ the world to give away - or at least England.

* * *

Jane Parker had had a lot of thoughts over the past few days, and George Boleyn had been in all of them.

She had three reasons why she wanted to sell him out, even if they did coincide with each other: he was a sodomite, he had lots of mistresses, and he was truly having a relationship with his sister.

The first: perceptibly true, but not a reason why Jane would care to take his life - for what scant attention he paid her, she liked him even less.

The second: probably true, but once again - Jane didn't give a flying fig if he had mistresses. After all, Anne Boleyn had protested against her husband's love life outside of matrimony, and look where she was today.

The third: possibly true, if you looked at in from a certain angle. But if one (as Jane did) believed the first reason, this was impossible and disgusting. George had been raised a Catholic, after all, for all he delved into Lutheranism.

And after Jane had dismissed every single one, it was really quite simple: she wanted to marry Thomas Cromwell.

She wanted to _impress_ him.

She had given him the tools to create Anne's downfall, the necessary information; she had sent him countless (unreplied) letters; she smiled when she saw him; she dropped heavy hints that they were both unmarried. Nothing.

She was beginning to wonder if the man was a sodomite himself - he was stoic, emotionless and about as responsive as a rock. He dismissed her just as Anne had done - written her off as a ditzy blonde. For he and Anne were quite similar; both dark-haired, clever and cruel. If she hadn't known either of them, she would've thought them brother and sister.

But brother and sister didn't send each other to the grave.

* * *

Mary Stafford met with Cromwell eight days after her sister's death date, much to the displeasure of her husband. She had told him very firmly she did not plan to loiter; she was to walk in, tell him what she thought of him - perhaps even slap him - and leave. After all, it was his fault she was sibling less - his and the King's.

Yet what she didn't expect was to see a ragged, unshaven man at the bar, looking like any old drunk you might meet at the Queen's Head. She didn't expect to feel _pity_ \- but she stuck her head up and strode towards him.

He saw her coming. "Don't," his voice was surprisingly weak. "Please don't. Your father's already told me it, he's told me all of it. I'm so-"

"My _father_?" Mary had all but forgotten the man who had raised her.

"The man himself. He tried to strangle me."

Mary sat down. "Well," she said carefully. "He's not my father anymore. Disowned me, didn't he?"

And with that, she decided to trust Thomas Cromwell.

"I think you know what I'm here about," he looked her in the eye.

"My sister. Anne Boleyn." He flinched at her name; Mary frowned. "What? You kill-"

"Alright! Alright." He scratched his head. "And if we're talking technically, it was the _King,_ not me."

"Sure," Mary said. She ordered a drink of her own.

"Also - before her death - long, long before her death - she threatened me. It was my head or hers, and like man I chose my own."

"She did?"

But Thomas wasn't listening; he stared into his cup as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Perhaps it did.

"Your sister," he said suddenly. "I do believe I-"

"Oh, please," Mary took a long sip from her cup. "You've no idea how many suitors I had to fend off to save her from becoming too big-headed. Wyatt, Percy… I failed, of course, look what she became."

He smiled. Ruefully, almost. "Of course. Anne wouldn't settle for anything less than Queen. When I saw her, y'know, I thought: _she isn't royal, but I vow and swear she's more regal than most princesses I've seen._ "

Mary laughed.

Perhaps Thomas had coordinated her downfall.

But it was the King who had caused her _death_.

* * *

Thomas Wyatt had given up on poems.

That left him with nothing; he was not a sportsman, nor a musician, nor a comedian. Just a poet, Anne's poet, and now all he could write were gory renditions of her death were she posed as Madonna, or Boudicca. These made him laugh, sometimes, because Anne was hardly comparable to _them_.

He could remember her last day; how calm she looked, how peaceful. She was prepared to die, prepared to begin something dark and dangerous that Thomas would never wish to encounter. She was already in heaven, he thought. She was innocent, she was pure, and so were the other five men. It was only _him_ who had been cursed to stay upon Earth, guilt weighing his every movement. Perhaps Cromwell thought he was sparing him.

Damn Cromwell. Damn Cromwell and Lutheranism and England; damn them all. Damn the King.

He realised he was raving, he was slamming his fist on the desk and ripping up paper. Damn poems! Damn work!

Damn Anne Boleyn.

* * *

For all it was cracked up to be, Jane thought being Queen was pretty poor.

In fact, she _hated_ it.

She was too kind to hate the baby inside her, so she hated Henry instead: Henry and the curse he had brought upon her. She swore she couldn't be Queen for another _year_ , let alone the rest of her life - poor Queen Catherine, who had been Queen for eighteen years! She hated the responsibility, the people, and she missed Wulf Hall. Ever since she became Queen, Edward hadn't talked to her, Tom wouldn't have a laugh with her and Elizabeth hadn't even been at court because she'd married _stupid_ Gregory Cromwell. And it didn't help that she had Mary Tudor hanging off her every word, convinced she was some rebirth of her mother.

Sometimes, she could see what Anne was doing when she banned her.

She much preferred Elizabeth, though she shouldn't - but neither of England's princesses were particularly beautiful or charismatic. Mary was over-awed, Elizabeth was beaky; Mary was uptight, Elizabeth was smug…

Jane glared at her growing belly, praying the child inside was a boy. If it wasn't a boy, her head would be detached from her body, unless she died in childbirth; though perhaps Henry would be so angry he would rip it from her himself. Her only (current) escape was childbirth, and Jane was determined to take it. She didn't fear death, she feared Henry's wrath (though the two were one and the same).

She wished Anne Boleyn didn't have to die.

* * *

Henry spent four days forcing himself to think of Jane. Her sweet face, her kind words, her honey-blonde hair, her enticing silver eyes…

But those enticing silver eyes belonged to Anne, for Jane possessed watery blue ones, hardly comparable to Anne's majestic -

And he was at it again, thinking of Anne, Anne, Anne.

No. He had Jane now; Jane and his future son, Jane and the child who was not Anne's, Elizabeth… Elizabeth, who shared her mother's eyes and her mother's face but his hair, so he knew she was perfect mix of them both. He visited her every day.

And he tried to visit Jane too, but sometimes, to make it easier, he pretended she had long dark hair and a white, swan-like neck. He pretended she spoke in rhymes to amuse him and caressed her belly and spoke to the child inside, calling it Henry even though it was a daughter - stupid _witch_!

His thoughts went to her (remaining) family. Ambitious, hawk-eyed Thomas Boleyn; honey-and-milk Mary, who married a lowly soldier for love. Sometimes when he thought of her family he needed reminding of why he killed her.

Because of no son [but she had been young, only thirty-one], because she was a witch [yet she was dead and you were still under spell?], because she entertained five men in her chamber, one of them her brother…[Cromwell just made those charges up. You should've executed him instead.]

He just had to wait a little longer. Then Anne would be gone from his head, he was sure of it. [Just like you were sure you would love her forever…]

* * *

When the tower gates closed behind her, Anne Boleyn swore she had stopped loving Henry.

She swore to stop feeling and to stop loving _anybody,_ let alone some husband who arrested her.

Instead, she began preparing for her death, the fall of the axe and the flash of the sun against it. The imminent end was closing in on her, and she swore to be ready for it.

She walked onto the platform. She kept her head high, she kept her mouth closed. She took a breath in. She closed her eyes. She took a breath out; her last.

 _Henry._ His face, his eyes, his hands, his smile. He was _hers_ ; he had been hers. He had sworn to love her.

He loved her.

Anne Boleyn died with a smile on her face, and even Charles Brandon knelt to her.

In the end, it had been alright.


End file.
